Page 16 of The Nightmare's Kiss

I can’tbreathe. I should always be able to breathe, it’s a dream, a fucking dream, and you can always breathe in a dream even when you plug your nose; it’s a way to know you’re dreaming. But Ican’t.

Am I strangling myself with my covers? Is it possible to scare yourself to death?

I thrash and struggle, to no avail. I can’t move an inch with the shadows clinging to me, slowly tightening like a boa constrictor covering my entire body at once. Ithurts.

Maybe I should give up. Let the darkness take me—

But no. No. I refuse. I will not die in my bed of fear like a fucking idiot in this fucking stupid town. I will not let my parents find my body in the morning. I will not die before I’ve even been able to live. I’m notdone.

My terror turns, suddenly and fiercely, to anger. The scream of fear turns into a shriek of rage, and I bite downhardon the shadowy hand over my mouth. It writhes, trying to escape, but I only clamp down harder and grind my teeth, until I feel the surface break and something warm and salty fills my mouth. Then I spit it out and scream,“Fuck you!”

I wake up, breathing in short, hard gasps, in my bed. The scent of smoke lingers in my nose and mouth. The comforter is twisted all around me, tangled up around my neck, and I swear and flail in rage until I manage to disentangle myself and shove it off the side of the bed. Once it’s gone, I sit up, raking a hand through my sweaty hair, and glare down at the pile of fabric on the floor.

“Fuck you,” I mutter at it again. “Not today, motherfucker. Not ever, not like that.”

Then I put my face in my hands, let out a low groan, and wonder how hard it would be to get an Ambien prescription.

10

Chapter Ten

Later that morning, I arrive at work to find a considerably longer list of tasks waiting on my desk. Again, I feel a flicker of uncertainty. Is this a punishment for diverging from my instructions, or are the higher-ups just giving me more work now that I’m getting the hang of this? Either way, there’s no chastisement over my interactions with the subject. Surely, if I were doing something wrong, someone would let me know. So I take their silence as approval.

But today, it seems I’ll barely have time to do the tests they’re requiring me to run, let alone enough to get creative with my own. Especially given that I’m utterly exhausted.

Honestly, I’m relieved that I won’t have to be face-to-face with the Nightmare after that horrible dream last night. Just looking at it through the observation panel makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

At first, I sit rigid and tense in my chair, nervous every time I have to take my eyes off the subject and check my instructions again. I keep expecting to look up and see that horrible, sharp-toothed grin pressed against the glass. But as the hours drift by and nothing interesting happens, my adrenaline fades and exhaustion takes its place. Soon enough, I find myself struggling not to nod off in my chair.

But every time I find my eyes starting to slide shut, I remember that dream—the terrible grin, the hand clamping over my mouth—and snap back awake to glare at the Nightmare in its cell.

I know it’s not the subject’s fault that I’m having nightmares about it. Not really. Still, I can’t fight the resentment or the sense that these horrible dreams are punishing me, somehow. Maybe my brain is punishing itself. But what have I done to deserve this? I’m working on proving the subject’s intelligence when I can, and otherwise, I’m following instructions. Doing my job. Theonlyjob available to me in this washed-up little town.

But no matter how much I try to justify it to myself, the guilt remains.

At lunch, I pick at my food and drain two terrible cups of coffee, longing for the creative flavors of Cup o’ Happy. Ezra watches me with a concerned furrow between his brows.

“You feeling all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah.” I flutter a hand in a half-hearted gesture. “I just…well. You know.”

It’s a vague answer, but he nods like he does understand. “The first week is the hardest,” he says. “After that, it gets…” He hesitates. “Well, you get used to it. You’ll be surprised to see that a job like this can getboring, but trust me, it does.”

I smile wanly. “Wow. Quite the pep talk.”

“Would you prefer some cheesy inspirational quotes? Perhaps printed over delightful images of the beach? Because I could ask about putting some up in here…”

It feels impossible to laugh after the day I’ve had, but somehow I’m doing it anyway. “Oh, God, please no. Anything but that.”

Ezra laughs along with me but quiets rather abruptly, glancing across the room. I follow his gaze to find Ethan staring at us. He looks away as soon as I catch his eye, turning his back to us.

I groan, sinking down in my chair. “Of all the people to share a lunch break with,” I mutter.

Ezra raises his eyebrows, leaning forward. “Have you already got beef with Mayhew?” he asks, voice lowered and eyes bright with curiosity. “I mean, not that I blame you. Dude thinks he’s soveryhigh and mighty, even though the director only favors him for his local connections.”

I file that information away for later as I huff a laugh under my breath. “Oh, I realized he was an assholelongago. We dated. Unfortunately.”

“Oof.”

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